Two Years Gone
by AZGirl
Summary: He now knew why he had been feeling so unsettled, and cursed himself for not remembering sooner.


**Disclaimer** : The Musketeers are not mine. I'm just borrowing the concepts and characters for a little while.

 **Spoilers:** Takes place between seasons 1 and 2.

 **A/N** : Recently, I discovered that I've been writing and posting Musketeers stories for two years now, and thought I should write something to celebrate. I remembered a story that I never finished, which had to do with a two year anniversary, and decided I would give it another go. Here's the result.

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 **ooooooo**

" _Memory only slumbers – never dies."_

~~~~~~~ James Payn

 **ooooooo**

He opened his eyes to a room completely devoid of light and felt a tear slip down the side of his face. The sense of something akin to sorrow that had followed him into the waking world was overwhelming, and he struggled to recapture the essence of the dream he realized had awakened him, knowing it was connected. Yet, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't remember anything from his dream except the emotions that it had stirred and which were still lingering.

D'Artagnan spent the rest of the night trying and failing to get back to sleep.

ooooooo

The young Musketeer met his friends for breakfast and though he felt hungry, he also didn't feel like eating. If the others noticed that he barely touched his meal, they didn't let on, though he thought he caught Athos giving him a concerned side glance at least once.

At roll call, Tréville had no assignment for them, so the day was given over to training.

Aramis worked with him for a while on increasing the speed of his reloads. D'Artagnan felt that he was getting better at it, but didn't think he would ever be as fast or as proficient as his friend. After some target practice and the cleaning of the pistols they had used, Athos asked if he would like to spar.

From the beginning, d'Artagnan was distracted and slow, unable to fully concentrate on the fight. His mind and body suddenly seemed weighed down by something he didn't quite understand.

After Constance had chosen to stay with her husband, it had been some time before he was able to truly smile again or be with his friends and not feel like he was casting a pall over their gatherings. This weight that had descended upon him seemed similar to that time, yet it was much worse and he could not fathom why he was feeling that way.

It seemed to take tremendous effort to move, especially his arms, and the longer he and Athos sparred, the more he made mistakes. The more he made mistakes, the more frustrated he became with himself.

At first, Athos was patient with him, taking it easy and perhaps sensing something was wrong, but eventually the older man started going more and more on the offensive, prompting him to draw his main gauche. He hoped it would help to make up for his temporary lack of skill and desire to continue the fight, but even that did not help his poor showing. Once or twice he thought he saw disappointment on Athos's face, and it had the unfortunate side effect of adding to his rotten mood.

He recalled the older Musketeer's lesson about not letting his heart get in the way of his head, but it appeared to be an impossible task in this case. In the next moment, he failed to deflect a hit that he could have easily escaped only days after beginning to regularly train with Athos.

The move had disarmed him of his main gauche, which caused a sudden, overwhelming sense of déjà vu. It reminded him of the very first time he had fought Athos only two days after…

Images that he had struggled to remember from the previous night's dream slammed to the fore of his mind, and he realized that they were glimpses of the past.

 _Heavy rain._

 _An inn in the distance._

 _Convincing his father to stop for the night._

 _Begging his father to not die._

He now knew why he had been feeling so unsettled, and cursed himself for not remembering sooner.

Two years ago this week, his father had died in his arms.

How could he have forgotten? What kind of son was he for not remembering the anniversary of his father's death?

An arm grabbed his right biceps, startling him.

"D'Artagnan?" Athos said, looking concerned and giving the young Gascon the impression it hadn't been the first time the older man had tried to get his attention.

"Forgive me," he replied. "I just remembered a previous engagement, and must go before I am late."

Without waiting for a reply, and not caring that Athos likely knew what he had said was a falsehood, d'Artagnan sheathed his sword and quickly walked out of the garrison, not realizing that he had left his main gauche behind in the dirt.

As he quickly strode away, d'Artagnan tried to call an image of his father to mind, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't. He wasn't able to recall what his father looked like anymore. All the young Gascon could see in his mind's eye was the blood covering his father's chest as he lay dying in his son's arms.

Regret joined despair, and the weight of what he now recognized to be melancholy increased yet again. He had hoped his father's face would have taken longer to disappear from his memory. From previous experience, he knew it would happen sooner or later as it had with his long-deceased mother. At this point in time, the clearest thing he could still recall of what she had looked like was her hair – dark like his own and very long, a thick braid trailing down her back. He had always been fascinated by how it moved as his mother had worked around the house.

After his father had been killed, he thought he could delay the time his father's face would disappear by recalling it at least once a day. Somehow he had gotten out of the habit and was now paying the price. But whereas he had his mother's hair and a vague recollection of her singing while she baked, his clearest memory of his father was a rain-soaked body covered in blood.

Rushing away, just shy of running, d'Artagnan thought he heard his name being called once or twice but he ignored it and continued walking.

ooooooo

Not really having a destination in mind, he went through the streets of Paris without actually seeing the people and shops that he was passing. It wasn't until he emerged from the streets and saw the lonely field of metal crosses that he began to wonder if he hadn't had a destination in mind all along.

He had only been there a few times so far, including twice for the purpose which the place was meant for. D'Artagnan couldn't bring himself to go any closer to the Musketeers' cemetery and yet he was now certain he had been heading to this quiet place of rest from the beginning. His father was buried far too many miles away, and this place where his brothers-in-arms rested was probably the closest he would come to visiting Alexandre d'Artagnan's grave in the near future.

D'Artagnan carefully worked his way around the periphery of the cemetery and settled down to sit in the shade of a nearby building. From his new vantage point, he could still see many of the crosses if not the mounds of dirt that covered his fallen brothers-in-arms.

The only Musketeers he had personally known that were buried in the ground before him were Marsac, who he hoped was at peace now despite everything, and Vernier, who had been killed in a skirmish with a band of roving thieves only a few weeks ago. His eyes were continually drawn to Vernier's grave, the raised mound of dirt a perfect reminder of what he had lost. It also served to turn his thoughts towards the day his father had been murdered.

His intentions that day had not been entirely honorable; he had truly believed his father to have been tired, but at the same time, he had been sick and tired of the cold, unrelenting rain falling on him and soaking him to the bone. All he had wanted was to be dry and warm again, so when he'd seen the inn in the distance, he had begun trying to convince his father to stop for the night.

If he hadn't been so weak and selfish, then perhaps his father would still be alive to this day.

Back on his farm at this hour of the morning, he would be just finishing the regular chores before heading out to help his father tend to the land. Except for a midday meal break, they would have kept working until the sun was almost down. Directly after their evening meal, they would have spent an hour or two in leisure, reading aloud or him listening to tales about his father's younger days as a foot soldier in the regular army. After a night's sleep, it would start all over again the next morning. His life would have continued on in a similar fashion for the rest of his days, and he never would have known the difference had it not been for that one, rainy day.

Then, as quick as a wink, it occurred to him all that he would be missing out on had his father not died. Without that one tragic event to detour his life, he never would have met his three friends, men who were now as close as brothers to him and really the only close family he had left in the world. He would never have known what it was like to be part of a brotherhood, one of the King's Musketeers. And even though she was lost to him now, he never would have met and fallen in love with Constance.

 _Dear Lord, why did the discovery of my true purpose in life have to hinge on my father's murder?_

D'Artagnan brought his knees up to his chest and rested his arms upon them, thinking about the one other time he'd been to this cemetery. A few days after Milady and the Cardinal's schemes had been overthrown, he had gone with Athos, Porthos, and Aramis to unearth the empty casket used for Athos's fake funeral. Athos had hired a couple of young men about his age to do the actual work while his friend had insisted on supervising. The three of them had stood by him throughout, knowing that Athos was still reeling from the recent confrontation with his wife, and that this act was helping their friend gain some closure.

That night, he had almost wished that he hadn't been there as he had been plagued by nightmares. In one of his dreams, his mind had gone back to the day his father had been murdered, but instead of his father, the body he had held in his arms with that of his best friend, Athos. Another dream had morphed the faked shooting of Athos in the town square into him shooting his own father for real instead. Aramis had taken the retaliatory shot in this scenario and d'Artagnan had awakened with the healing wound in his side aching in time to the beat of his heart. It had taken him quite some time to reorient himself to reality, for a while feeling as if he had deserved the pain he had been experiencing that night.

Feeling his eyes begin to burn with tears, he began to wonder if his coming to the cemetery had been the best idea. His every thought now was death and despair fused with regret, shame, and guilt, but his body felt too heavy, and he couldn't bring himself to move from where he was sitting.

Moving his arms to pull his legs closer to his chest, d'Artagnan bowed his head to rest on his knees. Tears began to build so he closed his eyes to prevent them from escaping, but his efforts proved futile. His eyelids could only hold back the flood for so long before the teardrops slipped passed the fleshy dam to fall unheeded where they may.

It was all he could do to keep his breathing under control as the myriad of negative emotions rode the waves of the seemingly endless supply of tears.

ooooooo

D'Artagnan had no idea how long his tears had flowed when he didn't so much hear as feel a presence approach. Without opening his eyes, he knew without a doubt that it was Athos who had come to stand by him. From the noises made, he determined that his friend had taken to leaning against the same wall that was at his back.

Embarrassed by his outward expression of grief, he said nothing and remained wrapped up in himself, a ball of misery, while Athos seemed content to stand sentry over him.

Somehow his brother knew when the tears had subsided, because he heard Athos detach himself from the wall he was doing so admirable a job of holding up. For a moment, he thought the older man was going to leave, but instead Athos moved to sit beside him on the ground, close enough that their shoulders were touching.

D'Artagnan tried to surreptitiously wipe away the evidence of his sorrow, knowing Athos had likely observed his efforts anyway and hoping the older man would not judge him too harshly.

When he finally felt ready, he released the tight hold he'd had on his lower legs and looked up into eyes that only held worry and concern for him. He found himself leaning into Athos's shoulder, and for some reason, he was surprised when that shoulder leaned back into his, so that they were essentially supporting each other. D'Artagnan found that he was ridiculously grateful for the slight contact between them.

Despite the unvoiced support he had from his friend, d'Artagnan found that he was not quite ready to discuss what had caused him to run out on their training session. He returned his gaze to the graves before them, trying to figure out how he was going to explain his actions. D'Artagnan could practically feel Athos's curiosity and concern through where their shoulders were connected, but the man seemed willing to wait out his reticence for the time being.

ooooooo

D'Artagnan had no idea how much time had passed before he felt Athos shift beside him. His friend moved to stretch his legs out before him, crossing them at the ankles and resting his hands in his lap. In his mind, the shift of posture was a clear indication that Athos was getting ready to break the silence between them. He could've asked for, and probably been granted more time, but he was aware that his odd behavior was likely worrying Athos.

He sensed more than saw Athos's head turn towards him.

"This was your previous engagement?" Athos asked, inclining his head towards the nearby graveyard.

Just seconds ago he thought he'd been ready to talk, but now he wasn't so sure and his indecision was reflected in the one-shouldered shrug he gave as his response as well as him turning his head away from Athos's penetrating gaze. He knew his answer was woefully unsatisfactory, and he could feel his friend's eyes practically boring a hole in the back of his head.

After another half minute or so, he could no longer bear the scrutiny and amended his answer to a nod of his head in the affirmative. A frustrated sound escaped his lips a second later as he once again changed his answer.

"I don't know!"

Athos said nothing; instead, he leaned a little more heavily against where their shoulders met. The subtle show of support was so like Athos, who so often let his actions speak for him that d'Artagnan felt muscles relaxing that he hadn't previously realized were so tense. He dipped his head to hide his face when his eyes began to sting with tears that were threatening to develop.

Athos and their friends had continually shown him that he was not alone in the world, and that he could confide his troubles to them. In fact, he wouldn't really be surprised if Aramis and Porthos were close by, waiting for Athos to get him to open up about his unusual behavior before they approached. The reminder of his brothers' support helped ease his mind enough that he thought he could finally confess his difficulties.

He sighed and looked at Athos briefly before he said, "In a few days, it will be two years since my father was murdered."

Athos shifted position slightly, but otherwise did not say anything, likely waiting for him to continue.

D'Artagnan looked out over the cemetery. "I woke up this morning feeling…out of sorts, and did not know why until we began to spar."—he slammed his fist into the ground beside him—"What kind of son forgets the anniversary of his father's death? Until you relieved me of my main gauche, using the same move as that first time we faced each other…I didn't remember."

"There is no shame in that, d'Artagnan," Athos quietly said. "I doubt your father would want you to remember him as he was that day."

"That's just it!"—he hit the ground again—"That's the _only_ way I can remember him now!"

D'Artagnan sat up from the wall he'd been leaning against, breaking the physical connection between him and Athos and feeling like he no longer deserved comfort of any kind.

"I can't remember his face anymore. All I can see is the blood pouring out of his body, feel the cold rain pouring over us, and hear your name as the last word he ever spoke."

From his current sitting position, he couldn't see Athos, but could certainly feel an increase of tension in the air surrounding them. He hated having said those words, reminding Athos of a time the man had almost died, but d'Artagnan also couldn't deny their simple truth. He had so very little of his father left, and couldn't bear losing even those last moments with him. Those were moments that had ultimately led him to the Musketeers and his best friends.

"I'm sorry," he said, blurting the words out and not daring to look Athos in the eye.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Athos shaking his head slightly as if to say that what he'd said had been of no consequence. It didn't completely resolve his guilt, but it helped.

The silence between them returned for a few minutes before Athos spoke.

"D'Artagnan…do you think it would be possible to tell me of that day? All I know was that your father was murdered and that my name was used to frame me."

D'Artagnan did not know what to say; it was as if his mind couldn't truly process what Athos had just asked of him.

Before he could even begin to unravel his mixed up thoughts, Athos said, "I apologize. I should not have asked—"

"No," d'Artagnan interrupted, suddenly realizing what the answer to Athos's request would be. "It's alright. You have a right to know."

"I'm not entirely certain I do have that right. Though I was accused of the act, it is not necessary that I know the particulars."

He considered the out Athos was giving him. D'Artagnan could pretend that Athos had never asked him about that earth-shattering day. Then again, he couldn't. His best friend had almost died because of what had happened to his father; it wasn't such an unreasonable request to want to know more about what had led to his arrest.

So d'Artagnan told him. Slowly, haltingly at first, but he managed to get the words out. Though he had started at the end, with his father dying in his arms, d'Artagnan found himself expanding his tale and telling the older man more and more of that day. He talked about his father teasing him about needing to rest; their days out on the road together traveling from Gascony; and much more. After a while, he even found himself leaning back against the wall, his and Athos's shoulders once more coming into contact. Athos never once asked a question or interrupted in any way.

It was during the retelling of one of those stories that d'Artagnan realized just how clear his father's face currently was in his mind's eye. It was as if he'd just seen the man a few hours ago, not two years in the past. He also realized that a long-forgotten memory of his mother had resurfaced as well. Though he could not see her face clearly, it was enough, because it was more than he had just the day before.

Perhaps he had never really forgotten after all. The memories he had may never have that crystal-clear quality they had the first days after they were created, but they were still there. And most importantly, he understood that they would always be there – in his heart. Therefore, they would never truly be forgotten. The pictures in his mind may fade, but the feelings they stirred would always remain.

He closed his eyes and relished the restored memories his tale had conjured. D'Artagnan may have been reluctant at first to share the pain of that day with Athos, but now he was grateful for his friend's request. It had brought life to what he'd thought had been dead and gone.

Basking in the memories, he was startled by the hand that was suddenly on his forearm. When he opened his eyes, Athos tightened his grip for a moment before releasing it and saying, "Thank you. I know how difficult that must have been for you."

"No, Athos. It is I who should be thanking you. Recounting my father's— Recounting that day helped bring back memories I had thought lost for good."

Athos smiled slightly and dipped his head in acknowledgement. In return, d'Artagnan patted Athos's forearm, almost mirroring the older man's recent gesture.

However, something about Athos's smile nagged at his subconscious. It wasn't the fact that his friend had smiled – or rather, smiled his version of a smile. It was the fact that there was a certain quality about it that made it almost seem smug in nature. Almost as if he was satisfied with the outcome beyond the knowledge he had gained. Why would Athos be smug about—?

It's at that moment that d'Artagnan realizes what Athos's reaction really meant. Athos had likely never heard the full story of what had happened at the inn, but d'Artagnan found it just as plausible that the older man's request had had another purpose. One that succeeded in bringing back memories that weren't of his father's last moments. Athos's request had broken through that brick wall that had been blocking good memories of his father.

He was well aware of how devious Athos could be at times, but he never thought that deviousness would be used against him – except when they matched swords. D'Artagnan considered confronting Athos about his suspicions, but decided against it.

Instead, he let the older man have his triumph, and dared to lean a little against his friend. Athos's head turned towards him slightly, but he ignored the asking glance he could see out of the corner of his eye. When Athos neither pulled away nor shifted position in any way, d'Artagnan took it as tacit permission to remain leaning against the man as he kept his gaze turned toward the cemetery.

Before, it had seemed a melancholy, almost eerie place, full of despair. Now, the melancholy still lingered, but it also felt peaceful – that its inhabitants were at their well-deserved rest. He supposed he had Athos to thank in part for this change of perception.

He knew not how long they sat there peacefully, side-by-side when they heard a strange noise followed by a muffled sound of protest that they both recognized. In unison, he and Athos turned towards each other and shared a smile. After a moment, Athos rolled his eyes slightly and huffed in mock annoyance. Athos then looked at him as if to ask if it was alright to invite their friends closer. D'Artagnan thought about it for a moment before shrugging and nodding once in reply.

"You can come out now, Aramis," Athos said, raising his voice enough to carry across the courtyard.

"You too, Porthos," d'Artagnan added before grinning.

With sheepish expressions on their faces, Porthos and Aramis came out from their hiding place, while he and Athos stood up and walked over to meet their friends.

"Apologies, d'Artagnan. We did not mean to eavesdrop—" Aramis began.

"Actually, except for, you know"—Porthos gestured vaguely—"about memories, we couldn't—"

"What he's trying to say, is that we couldn't hear most of what you two were talking about."

"It's alright. Really"—d'Artagnan shrugged and crossed his arms—"This week marks the second anniversary of my father's…and today it got to me. Athos was kind enough to keep me company and help me through some things."

It wasn't quite the whole truth of what had gone on between them, but it was close enough. Both Porthos and Aramis's expressions morphed to ones of sympathy.

"My condolences, d'Artagnan," Aramis said. "I am sorry we did not remember."

Porthos reached behind his back and produced the main gauche he'd left behind, handing it to him hilt first. Replacing it in its sheath, d'Artagnan smiled his thanks as his friend added, "Sorry also that we weren't more considerate of your loss back then."

"We were—" Aramis began before d'Artagnan held up his hands to stop any further apologies or explanations.

"Gentlemen, there is no need to apologize. We were barely acquaintances, and Athos's life was in jeopardy. I completely understand."

"But—"

"No; I will not hear any more on this matter."

"In that case," Athos said, "will you hear of retiring to a tavern for something to eat and drink?"—he briefly looked up at the sky—"I believe we missed the midday meal, and if you feel up to it, then perhaps you could tell us of your father. I, for one, would like to know if he was responsible for teaching you the sword."

D'Artagnan nodded and smiled his acceptance of the idea.

As the four of them left the graveyard and headed to a nearby tavern favored by their brother Musketeers, d'Artagnan thought back to earlier in the day. Just hours ago, he would not have been able to share anything about his father. Now, he had many great memories he could share with his friends.

In fact, thanks to Athos, he was looking forward to it.

ooooooo

 _The end._

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 **A/N:** Many thanks to Celticgal1041 for her help; all remaining mistakes are my fault.

 _ **Thanks for reading!**_


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